


an image of you flickers in my head

by dayblur



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Istanbul, Post S3, i honestly don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayblur/pseuds/dayblur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon enough, they’re both standing there in silence passing the cigarette back and forth, looking at the lit-up city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an image of you flickers in my head

**Author's Note:**

> I watched all of Homeland for the first time like last week. I'm literally puking up Carrie/Quinn feelings left and right and I NEVER write fic ever but here I am writing fic. Honestly I probably shouldn't be posting this since I wrote it so quickly but I just idek. So basically I'm sorry if this is terrible, which it most definitely is. Also, this is unbeta-d so if you catch any grammar/spelling things please let me know.
> 
> Also please please please come talk to me on [tumblr](http://kanerd.tumblr.com) I need someone to talk to about all this shit for real.
> 
> Finally, the title was taken from the song ["Flickers" by London Grammar](http://youtu.be/MGvHQEGGJIc) which is definitely required listening for this.

It’s one in the morning and he’s on the rooftop of the station, chain smoking cigarettes as he leans against the ledge. He drinks in the view of the Istanbul skyline in the darkness, just making out the Marmara behind the Blue Mosque. The lights on the little boats passing through shine through the night and he feels a stupid sense of longing to be on one of those boats. To get away. To stop feeling like a piece of shit all the time. To stop being what he is.

But he knows he can’t do that. There are reasons. He takes a long drag and closes his eyes as he lets the smoke fill the air around him.

Suddenly the rooftop door opens behind him. He doesn’t bother turning around or even opening his eyes. He already knows who it is.

“The fuck are you doing here, Quinn?” Carrie asks, clearly exhausted.

He hears her footsteps approach from behind him. 

“I’m sorry, do you own this roof?” he counters as he takes another drag, inhaling deeply. He keeps his eyes closed.

He can practically feel her rolling her eyes as she lets out an annoyed sound. “I just didn’t think anyone else knew about this place,” she says, walking forward to stand next to him.

“Well then,” he says, finally opening his eyes and turning towards her, one elbow still propped up on the ledge. “The fuck are _you_ doing here?”

She huffs out a laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “I just come here sometimes to think.”

“Sounds about right,” he says.

“The view doesn’t hurt,” she says.

“No, it does not.”

The both of them look out at the vast city. Neither of them say anything for a full minute.

“Got another cigarette?” she asks hesitantly.

His lips quirk upward the tiniest fraction, something most people would probably notice, but it’s Carrie so she definitely notices. “Last one,” he says, holding up the cigarette in his hand.

“Oh.” She looks down, shifts her feet.

He looks over at her again and notices the dark circles under her eyes and just how pale she looks. And it’s just a fucking cigarette but suddenly every protective feeling he’s ever had about her rushes to the surface and he remembers all those reasons why he can’t be someone else. She does things to him he doesn’t understand. It’s probably not normal that every time he’s lying in bed and can’t fall asleep it’s usually because thoughts of Carrie are running through his mind. He can’t fucking believe he’s like this now, that he can’t get her out of his head, and yet something gets stuck in his throat for a split second every time he so much as glances at her. And he has no fucking idea why.

He swallows.

“Here,” he says, looking away from her again, holding out the cigarette.

He sees her smile ever so slightly out of the corner of his eye as she takes the cigarette from him and she breathes in the nicotine. “Thanks,” she says.

Soon enough, they’re both standing there in silence passing the cigarette back and forth, looking at the lit-up city.

She’s the first to talk.

“You know, sometimes I just think about everything that’s happened and I just… I can’t deal with it,” she starts slowly, but soon it’s all coming out in a rush. “I feel like I’m drowning or I can’t breathe or something and it’s like it’s all crashing down on me and I just can’t fucking do it anymore.”

“You mean Brody?” He takes another drag.

“Jesus, not just Brody. Fucking everything,” she snaps at him.

“Do you remember what I told you after I’d confessed to Javadi’s murders?”

She thinks for a moment. “That you don’t believe in it all anymore?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That.”

He hands her the cigarette and looks down at his shoes. When he looks back up at her, she’s clearly puzzled.

“I still don’t fucking believe in any of this shit, Carrie,” he declares. “Every time I think it starts to feel okay again, I have to kill another person and it all just feels like one giant fuck up. Like it’s not worth it anymore.”

“Then why are you still here?”

He can’t help but laugh. She really has no fucking idea.

He takes a step closer to her, grabs what’s left of the cigarette from her fingers and puts it out on the ledge.

“I am here to help you, Carrie.” he says, looking at her intently.

“What if I said that I don’t need your help?” Her breathing has sped up. 

His jaw clenches at that. And then it’s almost as some other force takes over his body because suddenly he’s moving even closer, crowding her against the ledge of the building. She looks at him wide-eyed, not taking her eyes off his face.

“Doesn’t matter what you say, Carrie,” he says softly. “I’m not just gonna leave you.”

She inhales sharply and just slightly leans in towards him. His eyes close as he lowers his forehead to hers, one of his hands coming to her waist. Their breath mingles and he can smell the nicotine, can feel the heat of her mouth so close to his own.

“Quinn, I -”

A phone rings. It’s hers. He instantly backs away from her. Carrie pulls her phone out of her pocket. It’s Saul. Typical. She looks back at Quinn.

“I’m sorry I have to -”

“I know,” he smiles. He sticks one hand in his pocket and rubs the back of his head with the other.

She takes a few steps away from him, turns back to the city skyline and talks to Saul. When the call ends and she turns back around, Quinn’s already gone.


End file.
